Ransome took the letter from her. ‘Perhaps he thinks I don’t need it,’ he said.
Stunned, Phoebe shook her head, trying to understand what lay behind the offer, real need, or the need to get his own way after all the hints and grumbles. ‘I could have understood it if he’d wanted it for me, so that I could stay there. You might still have said no, but at least it would have been a charitable thing to do. But to ignore the fact that I need somewhere to live, with my household, is the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard, Buck. He didn’t offer to buy it when it was empty and derelict, did he? Leon might have sold it to him then. But now? How could he do such a thing?’
‘I must admit I’m quite puzzled by it. Did they discuss where you might go?’
‘Not seriously. But they’ve been hankering after Ferry House ever since I spent all my money on it. Too big for me. Just right for them. But you won’t consider his offer, will you, Buck? It’s part of our agreement.’
Leaning down, he took her by the hand and pulled her up against him. ‘Stop worrying,’ he said, softly. ‘Our agreement stands. We shall need Ferry House to live in, shan’t we? I’m not selling it to anybody.’
‘Oh, Buck! You won’t change your mind, will you?’ Her arms slid round his back to rest upon the solid warmth of him, and the breath was gently squeezed out of her in a gasp of laughter before their lips met for the second time that morning.
‘I cannot get enough of you,’ he breathed. ‘And, no, I shall not be changing my mind about anything, Madame Donville. You are my responsibility now, and there will be no going back.’
‘Thank you again for rescuing Leon. After our first meeting last week, I didn’t think you were capable of such kindness. I see I have much to discover about you.’
‘I intend that you shall discover all kinds of wonderful things before many more days. And nights,’ he added, kissing the tip of her nose.
‘I suppose Ross thinks you’ll be living here. As you do now.’
‘He can think what he likes, sweetheart. But you’re partial to the idea of shocking him, are you not? So if you wish to take a little sweet revenge that will do no harm, I could agree to discuss the matter with him. To keep him interested.’
‘To raise his hopes, you mean? Oh, that would be
wicked,
wouldn’t it?’ she laughed. ‘He deserves it, Buck. Truly, he deserves to be let down, for a change.’
‘I’ll send a message to him today.’
‘And shall you tell him we have Leon here?’
‘I think we might let him find that out for himself, don’t you? He’s shown very little interest in Leon’s plight, and none in yours either.’
‘So will you show me round, now that I’m here?’
‘No, I’m taking you back home. We have a concert to attend this evening, remember. However, since you have a moment or two to spare…’ Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, he removed it and laid it upon his desk. ‘There,’ he said, pulling her back into his embrace, ‘now I can kiss you without poking my eye out.’
‘I would like to have looked round, though.’
‘When the workmen have finished, you shall. I want you to see it ready for use. Now, can you contain your questions while I use your lips for something else, please?’
For
what
use? she wanteds to ask. Why would a man like Buck Ransome need two houses in the same area unless he had two families to maintain? Without admitting that she’d spied on him, how could she find out the truth?
Chapter Six
H
anding her mistress the carved ivory fan, Miss Cowling cast a critical eye over Phoebe’s deep red gown shot with blue, adjusted the bows on the short sleeves and almost smiled with approval. Miss Cowling never smiled, but one knew by her manner when she was pleased. The silk changed colour as it caught the light, showing up the dress-maker’s art in the bias-cut panels, the bands, and the layered bodice cut low across the bosom. ‘Thank you, Evie,’ Phoebe said. ‘Is that my reticule?’
‘Handkerchief. Mirror. Lip salve,’ said Miss Cowling, passing her the purse. ‘And your velvet cloak in case you need it. It might be cool later on.’ It had been years since Phoebe had worn the red silk dress, now subtlely altered to suit current fashion but no one would have known it from her demeanour, least of all the one who waited below, almost lost for words at the sight of her beauty.
Lord Ransome, who looked outrageously handsome whatever he wore, never looked better than in the evening dress-coat of dark blue with a collar of black velvet, his long limbs moulded into tight silk-jersey breeches the sight of which would be the envy of most men at the Ham House soiree. It was to be an evening, they both knew, when they would find it difficult to keep their minds on the social event instead of what might happen afterwards.
As it turned out, their evening was not the ordeal Phoebe thought it might be after being out of company for so long, expecting to know only a handful of the other guests. She knew several members of the Vestry in Richmond who were responsible for, amongst other things, the poor people of the parish, but the presence of so many French noble-men and ladies was not at first one of the more pleasant surprises.
‘I thought, dear,’ said the Countess of Dysart just before they took their seats in the great hall, ‘that it would be nice for you to meet them. They know all about you, but they’re great respecters of privacy, of course.’
‘
All
about me?’ Phoebe whispered to Ransome in alarm. ‘Does she mean that?’
‘From the French guests. Water under the bridge,’ he said. ‘Forget about it. I told you, they’re more thankful to be over here in safety than to hang on to past offences, especially when the offences were not yours.’
‘It’s all very well for you to say that,’ she retorted in a whisper. ‘So why did you wave the subject under my nose when you first came to see me?’
‘How else could I make sure you’d keep talking to me?’
‘That was
most
ungentlemanly, my lord.’
He smiled wickedly and took her hand. ‘Come, we’ll sit with the Misses Berry, shall we? You know them, don’t you?’
‘We’ve met a few times. They live on The Green.’
The hall at Ham House was not vast, but sixty people seated on plush-covered chairs was a comfortable crush of silks and velvets, gauzes and feathers, diamonds, frills and fluttering fans. More guests sat upstairs all round the balcony to look down upon the nodding heads and the group of musicians at the dais end, and to catch the music as it floated upwards. The Earl and his lady were perfect hosts, the Earl in a powdered wig worn only by the older generation these days, with a long embroidered frockcoat of brown velvet over cream satin. His beloved wife could be seen, rather like a church steeple, from any part of the room by the amazing confection of tall feathers and spumes of blonde lace spouting from her head-dress. But perhaps that was the intention, Phoebe thought as she glanced around her.
Her eye was caught by the young lady sitting on the other side of the Misses Berry, shimmering in white silver-threaded lawn, obviously French and classically fashionable. The young lady turned to smile at her with large dark eyes, as if she knew who Phoebe was, and would be her friend.
‘The niece of the Princess d’Henin,’ Ransome told her. ‘She lives on The Green too. I’ll introduce you.’
It was obvious, Phoebe thought, returning the smile, that he had been to these events before. She tried to concentrate on the music. ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ was a favourite of hers. The Royal Firework Music. One of the Bach Brandenburg Concertos, arias by Purcell, and a beautiful Schubert string quartet. All favourites. But her mind and body, which should have been in accord, all senses engaged, were not as in tune with each other as the instruments. Memories pervaded every soaring phrase with the sound of his voice, the scent and touch of him as he sat close, shoulders touching; hands strong and tender, resting only inches away; memories of knees and thighs nudging hers, his mouth savouring her skin, making her quiver, vibrate, and cry out. She
had
cried out, she remembered. And that had only been the beginning. Unclothed, there would be more.
He took her hand and held it on her lap. He knew her thoughts. Too much for a man of such short acquaintance. And she would marry him. Oh, yes, there was no doubt about that. She had allowed him into her life, and had discovered in only a few days what it was like to have a man to take charge of problems, to make decisions, to offer her the peace and safety of his protection. Already she was less fearful about the nagging French issue and all its ramifications. With him beside her here in the Earl and Countess’s home, what need was there to carry her fears into the future? He was right. It was time to let them go.
During the interval the guests were led away into the dining room where a beautiful parquet floor made an interesting talking point as they gathered to seek friends, food and drink. Crimson curtains glowed warmly in the candlelight from mahogany stands, silver and crystal winked between salvers of food, flowers and fruit drooping from epergnes. It was time, Phoebe said to herself, that she did some entertaining of her own, for, judging by the number of guests eager to meet her, she had more friends than she had thought possible.
So, between sips of wine and nibbles at tiny delicacies, the magnificent widow Madame Donville, tragic victim of the Revolution and therefore linked to themselves by association, was introduced to the Richmond French set, the young Marquise de la Tour du Pin who had smiled at her, the Comtesse de Balbi, mistress of the Comte de Provence who lived in Sir Joshua Reynold’s house on the Hill, two aged princesses and a duchess, writers and musicians, artists and architects. Speaking to them fluently in their own language, she immediately won their hearts, and by the end of the supper interlude, her sparkling eyes radiated a kind of happiness she had not experienced for many years. It was as if that particular ghost was laid for ever. Not even the thought of her relatives finding out about Claude could mar the sense of relief that overwhelmed her for, if these people could accept the tragedy, then why not her own family?
The Earl of Dysart wanted to know how soon he would be able to meet her brother, the artist. ‘Bring him over tomorrow,’ he said, patting Phoebe’s hand like a father. ‘It’s my tenants’ feast day, you know. We have it outside every summer. You’ll love it. Everybody dresses up, and my friend Rowlandson always comes over. It would be good for your brother to meet him. Bring the family with you. Good, that’s settled then.’
Phoebe would have liked to talk longer with the Countess, having heard how Ham House had suffered years of neglect, like her own, until the new Earl and his lady had begun a programme of restoration. Many of the rooms had been refurbished in an earlier style which, although not to Phoebe’s modern taste, had been carried out lovingly and with consideration. It would have to wait, she thought. The Countess would not have time tomorrow, with a tenants’ party to organise straight after a musical evening.
‘You have never looked more beautiful,
madame,’
Ransome whispered to her as they returned to the hall. ‘Happiness becomes you.’
‘You are very kind, my lord.’
‘No, I’m not being kind. You know me better than that.’
‘Yes, I do. I’m happy because things appear to be falling into place, at last. And I’m happy to be here with you. To be known as your mistress.’
‘As my future wife, perhaps?’
‘You have certainly removed almost all my reservations about that, my lord. Ah, but see…the musicians are returning.’
‘
Almost
all? What’s the remaining one, may I ask?’
‘Shh! I’ll tell you when it’s gone,’ she said, arranging the red silk over her knees. Then, to comfort him, she laid a hand over his and kept it there as the musicians launched into excerpts from Mozart’s
Magic Flute
with a group of enthusiastic soloists. But again, the music became incidental to Phoebe’s more private and personal needs, and the hand that held hers conveyed its own message in an occasional squeeze that said as clearly as words that their thoughts were the same.
The journey back to Richmond was taken in the intimate silence of reflection and anticipation, too short to do more than sit close together, too long to be bearable.
The time for polite conversation and half-understood phrases had passed, and Miss Cowling was dismissed before she’d done more than open the bedroom door without a blink of surprise. She had seen this coming. They would not even hear her ‘Goodnight, ma’am.’
No reticence or pretence, no more proprieties to be observed, they came together with only one song between them, their mouths, arms and bodies desperate for the kind of music only they could create, unaccompanied. A duet of love to which only they knew the words.
‘Beloved…ah, my delight…thou art like a ripe plum…’
She laughed. ‘A plum?’
‘Yes, a red, juicy…sweet…plum…for my mouth to… plunder. Take off this…damn skin…and let me get…to the flesh, woman.’
Only Buck Ransome could say it like that, she thought, and make it sound so romantic. Feverishly, with pauses, fingers working frantically to remove all the trappings of the evening, they helped each other out of their clothes, flinging them carelessly aside with laughter and some curses, until Ransome stood before her in his linen drawers and Phoebe reached her chemise, suddenly overcome with modesty, captivated by the first sight of his supremely beautiful candle-lit torso.
She had known the kind of thing to expect, but knowing had not prepared her for the reality, the width of shoulder and powerful chest, the sinewy neck and arms, the smooth slender hips of an athlete, his handsome head with the black hair that rose above the widow’s peak in thick waves, with some mutinous exceptions. Since their first wary en-counters, he had always been impeccably dressed, and to see him like this reminded her forcibly of how Claude Donville’s finery had concealed a boy’s body, a deceit as mean as his bedroom manners. If Ransome was high-handed, straightforward and lordly, he had a body to match his lofty ways and a manner of deceptive kindness, rather than the opposite. Whatever he was concealing from her could surely not be bad enough to turn her against him, as she’d been before.
‘What is it, sweetheart?’ he said, watching her eyes in the dim light.
Like a child in doubt, she bit at her top lip and released it, laying a hand over his arm, aware of the silky covering. ‘A thought,’ she whispered. ‘That’s all. Just a thought.’
He took her hand from his arm and drew her forwards until she could feel the warmth of him from knee to shoulder. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s been an evening that stirred up the past, sweetheart, as I knew it would. But it was a moving on too, wasn’t it? Like this. We’ve dealt with the past, yours and mine, and now we’re free. And I swear I shall never deceive you. Never. Whatever your reservations are, ask me and I’ll tell you. I would not hide anything from you that can affect our relationship, and if I used you badly when I forced you to accept me, that was the only ammunition I had, sweet nymph. Desperate measures.’
She was trembling as he lifted her and carried her in his arms across to the curtained bed, laying her upon the sun-warmed sheets. The scene had begun in haste, but her hesitation had slowed them down to a wonderment of delicious details, overlooked the first time. The gentle unpinning of her hair, the spreading of it, her hands seeking over the sweep of his long back, their lips moving over silky skin, tasting new surfaces. Lingering.
Keeping her hand captive on the pillow, he pulled at the cord of her chemise to open the neckline and to draw the fabric down, inch by inch, following it with lips and hand until she was naked under him, shifting in delight as he explored and discovered hidden valleys, folds, creases and private places that came alive, sending urgent demands for something more. Slowly, deliberately, he answered her demands with a skill previously only hinted at when conditions had been restricted, finding that her responses were as immediate as the first time, her moans becoming cries for consummation. Eagerly, her hands urged him on, positioning herself without his prompting, arching and meeting him, ready for his possession. ‘Now,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t hold back, beloved. Love me.’
His reply to her passionate invitation was as tempestuous as her dreams of him and, as her fingers dug into his arms, she felt the answering fierceness she had wanted, needed, yearned for over the past empty years, taking her to heights she could never have imagined. This was the man she had waited for, the only one to break down the wall she’d built around herself, to challenge the so-called peace of her life that was only one step away from isolation. The first time, in the garden, had been limited in scope and tailored to her newness, but now she was new no longer, and the evening had mended some of her broken dreams. It was time to give back, to be as fervently generous as he had been to her.
There was to be no leading or following on this second occasion, but a sharing of pleasures all the more potent for being linked to those fading old memories of discouragement on her part and rejection on his. She felt the mastery in his powerful control, but it was something to be gloried in, not resented or passively accepted, and what might have seemed like a mock-battle was, in fact, a wildness of the kind that had made him want Phoebe in the first place and, but for her interfering mother, would have won. She fought him, but only in love; she made him labour, but paid him handsomely. It was the most exciting and rewarding loving of their lives, rolling them over and over and across the bed in escape and pursuit, possession and submission, sweetness, and the kind of grim determination that takes hold of a man at the end, silent and intent.